Aftermath
by Wravyn
Summary: Quistis has always been known for being stoic, but few people realize the fragile hold she has on her self-control. This vignette is set after the party post-final battle with Ultimecia. (Seiftis undertones.) REDITED


_I am a ruthless editor of my own work. I read this over the weekend and decided it needed some work, so here it is. Again._

**Disclaimer: **You know the drill. Not mine, theirs. 

**Author's Note: **Angst, angst, and more angst. This one is dedicated to the lovely crowd at the Seiftis message board. I hope this makes for a suitable initiation. :-) 

_Feedback is very much appreciated._

**Aftermath**

By Wravyn 

The stars look beautiful tonight, even from the inside of the ballroom. Outside, the couple seems not to notice their brilliance, so enthralled were they with the radiance of each other. Boy and girl embrace, kiss under the canopy of the cosmos, a changeless scene that has been reenacted time and again the world over. 

A heartwarming scene indeed. 

The observer takes a small sip from her wine glass and turns back to her acquaintance, smiling. No, no, she says with a laugh, she'll sit this dance out, thank you for asking. She moves coyly away from his friendly persistence. Waves at the girl with the camera hovering nearby. 

Her eyes dart again to the couple on the balcony, and her shoulders droop momentarily. 

When under extreme strain, her blue diamond eyes gleam, become even more crystalline, but she never cries. No errant tears are allowed to fall, because to do so would be to succumb to the weakness of emotion. 

She is not weak, but her eyes glitter with a hardness that is not usual. 

Her acting skills are considerable. She is supposed to be the cool and collected one, and she plays her part to the hilt. Even now she manages to fool them all with her poise. Her lips are curved in a beatific smile, and she converses with the guests in an easygoing manner, laughing when it is appropriate, nodding absorbedly when it is not. Only her eyes threaten to betray her, but those unversed in the language of desolation simply misinterpret it as gaiety. 

The party is glorious. The crowd adores her. 

She dances a little, drinks a little. She excuses herself a little past midnight, and returns to her room. Calmly she inserts her key card into its slot and waits for the door to slide open. The soft hiss of the hydraulics is unobtrusive, familiar. Calmly she walks inside and calmly she turns on the lights. Calmly she goes about her nightly ritual as if nothing were out of the ordinary. 

As if she didn't just help save the world from the tyranny of the sorceress who would destroy it. 

She had always believed that there was a clear and logical reasoning behind the way life worked. Chaos in any form was disorderly, and therefore undesirable. Ultimecia had been chaotic. Ultimecia had been eliminated. 

And so life goes on for everyone. Including herself. 

She kicks off her shoes and places them neatly aside. Her dress she hangs inside the closet. The gloves too, come off, one dainty finger at a time. She looks at her reflection on her dresser mirror and methodically removes her makeup. 

Her hand trembles slightly, but she takes no notice. 

She attends to her hair last, same as every night. Hair golden as the Midas touch tumbles over her shoulders once released from its clip. Picking up her brush, she carefully runs it through her tresses, gently unsnagging the tangles and smoothing over the bumps. The very act is infinitely soothing. 

(But still her hand trembles.) 

Her hair is her one vanity, always had been. She loves the slippery feel of it in her hand when she brushes it, the whiff of its light summer fragrance when the winds play with its lengths, the comforting sleekness of it on her tongue. She'd been told oftentimes that she was very pretty, even beautiful, but she saw nothing extraordinary in her appearance save for the admirable luster of her long locks. They say pride comes before a fall, but she sees no harm in allowing two thick strands of hair to caress her cheeks even as she pins up the majority. 

She puts her brush down and turns to the mirror, appraises herself for a moment, stretches her lips in a wide grin. She scrutinizes her features; rose petal pink over the pearly whites, and above, eyes like the midsummer sky that crinkle up around the edges. A honey colored sheath completes the picture, framing an oval face so pale under the dim lights it was almost luminous. This was pretty? This was beautiful? She forces the grin wider, until her jaw begins to ache from the unaccustomed effort. She stops. 

Years ago he had told her she reminded him of springtime. Perhaps back then she _had _been Persephone, light and blithe and free. But they had been so young back then. Things were different now. 

_You guys are the monsters._

Her body tenses inadvertently, and she stretches herself out on the narrow bed. A strand of hair falls over her cheek and she unconsciously pulls it into her mouth. It is a childish habit she cannot break, nor has she any real desire to. Her eyes, wide, blank, stare unseeing into the distance. 

And she thinks of him. 

A crushing fist begins flexing its muscles somewhere within her chest cavity. She grimaces, squirms, weighs the possibility that her dejection stems from the anticlimax of the post-battle celebration. _Yes,_ she whispers. _That must be it._

Not true.

The fist tightens its grip over her heart, and she squeezes a pillow to her chest to countermand the pain. Her face becomes pinched, but she makes no sound. Ignores the turbulence inside. 

(She never cries.) 

If she allowed herself to feel… 

Weary. Disillusioned. Chaotic. 

(But chaos in any form was disorderly, and therefore undesirable.) 

She flashes back to the couple from earlier that evening, their hands entwined, their lips entwined, their limbs entwined, entwined, entwined. _Together._ Her own hands flex involuntarily on the pillow, and she draws her legs up slowly, truly ill at ease. 

_Coulda, shoulda, woulda's. The what if's get you every time._

She remembers the confident youth he had been. The arrogance in his smile. The audacity in his manner. The complete and utter faith in his beliefs. His dreams. 

She remembers his disbelief at his defeat. 

The light from his emerald eyes had been dimmed, dulled with the pain of failure. _…I'm disgraced…_ he had whispered, and her heart had wept as her eyes could not. Outwardly she had remained unruffled, winding up her battle whip with a casual air. 

Another day, another battle. Another loathsome enemy defeated. 

(The arrogance in his smile. The audacity in his manner. The complete and utter faith in his beliefs. His dreams. Gone.)

"Seifer..." The sibilance grating in her sandpaper mouth. _Where are you?_

_ She feels… _

_ …so alone. _

She tries hard not to cry, tries _hard_ not to cry, and manages to keep it down to a few dry, heaving sobs. 

(She's supposed to be the calm and collected one.) 

FIN 

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**A/N:**

I hope it wasn't too confusing. Just to clarify, I quoted directly from Seifer's dialogue in the game. He did call them monsters (after Squall accuses him of being one), and we all remember the heartbreaking "I'm disgraced" line after you defeat him. 

I was thinking of doing a series of vignettes based on each character's POV. Any thoughts on this? Whose misery do you want to wallow in next? :-) 


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